


Phantom Pain

by frankenberger



Series: Discontinuity [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Are there enough tags yet, But not porn with food, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant - mostly, Canon-Typical Violence, Food Porn, Hannibal needs a hug, I said "Major Character Death", Inept wine snobbery, M/M, Medical Procedures, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, So much angst, Too Much Talking, too many flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, Hannibal comes calling. Bedelia, to her credit, is a gracious hostess.</p><p>He carries himself like he is missing a limb, like part of his essence has been torn away. Between them hangs the ghost of a question as yet unasked, and unanswered. An absence, glaring and almost tangible.</p><p>Told over the course of a day, through the eyes of my very favourite drunken psychiatrist.</p><p>Sequel to 'Enfolded in Arms'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delicate Instruments

"Bâtard-Montrachet," I breathe, my voice barely a whisper on the crisp air as I take the first sip of my wine. It is glorious, rich fruit cut through honeyed oak and a hint of fresh acidity, cellar-cool.

"Very good, Bedelia." He lowers the sack of firewood to the ground with a punctuating thump, and speaks in a tone of what I would consider to be mild amusement. "Hazard a guess to the producer?"

I feel the sudden urge to laugh, but my mind is so gripped with a spinning lightness that I feel like the very action of laughter would twist my head off and fling it far over the rooftops. The feeling is disconcerting, I am quite attached to this portion of my anatomy. I settle for a smile. "I don't have your palate, Hannibal. Perhaps if I were lucid enough, I would venture to guess the vintage." He has poured me a number of drinks today, scandalous for the early hour, but nothing has come close to this quality. I am determined to enjoy it. I take another small gulp, rolling the flavour around on my tongue. "I would, no doubt, be wrong."

It is admittedly enthralling to watch him work, shifting the volcanic rocks and chunks of wood, constructing. I can see the muscles of his biceps straining against his rolled-up shirtsleeves, and the fine beads of perspiration that bead his brow. He is truly an elegant monster. Although he moves cautiously, it is still with a wiry strength and a fluid sort of grace. Stirred in with the mélange of emotion that fills me, there is a definite tinge of regret. A reminiscence of our past intimacies, his hands upon my shoulders, wrapped around the curve of my hips. His lips on mine. Despite the overall darkness of our feigned union, this warmth still coils around my midsection and refuses to abate. I hold myself straight and tall in the patio chair in an attempt to fend off the delirium. The press of my feet against the patio tiles grounds me to the earth. The chill of the crystal glass in my hand anchors me to the present. 

Hannibal settles down on his haunches to place the last rock on the pile he has been building. He dusts his hands with a small towel before reaching for the box of matches. "Good wine and psychotropes combined, I will try to forgive your lack of lucidity." He glances up at me, and a sandy lock of hair falls across one eye. To see him like this disarms me. I am unable to restrain myself from staring back at him, hating and wanting all at once. There is no doubt in my mind that he can sense the calibre of my gaze, and I am hardly in the frame of mind to disguise my open hunger. The corner of his lip twitches in what might be construed as fond surprise.

"I would offer to give you a hand," I begin, holding up my free hand in illustration. As the early afternoon light plays over my skin, I am momentarily distracted. The sun illuminates and brings into relief every tiny wrinkle, every peak and valley. I turn the palm away from me, study the veins that glow pale blue beneath the translucent surface. This limb, so real and material, this delicate instrument of bones and flesh. I am returned to earth as I remember the purpose of Hannibal's visit. I shiver. "But, you'll probably take it anyway, won't you?"

***

_I saw my hand in a glove of red, from the very tips of my fingers to the crook of my elbow. Drying tacky on my skin, slippery beneath the cuff of my soaked-crimson sleeve. I lay there for an endless moment on the grey pile of the carpet, stained and sparkling with shards of broken glass. I panted, as my heart fluttered ecstatically within my chest. When I turned to face him, I saw my patient gaze up at the ceiling with empty eyes and mouth agape. The stunned expression on his face mirrored my own. He did not, could not, turn to face me._

_I pulled myself upright, and a great wave of sickness rushed through me to see again my hand, my arm, the blood that painted every inch of skin. The memory of my hand down the throat of this wretched paranoiac, the warm wetness of the narrow airway around my knuckles as I thrust my folded fist down, further down. I gasped and shook, desperate to breathe in a room devoid of oxygen. My hand, dipped in drying blood, this deadly tool, this weapon._

***

Hannibal lights a match with a deft flick of his wrist and sparks the kindling at the base layer of the cooking pit. He crouches there, reflective, watching the eager flames curl up between the rocks. "I am only taking what I am owed," he states simply. While his candour has historically been lacking, I cannot generally fault his honesty with the facts he chooses to share.

"My leg," I say, but the word catches in my throat. I take a sip of the pale golden wine, which has suddenly become wincing-sour on my tongue. Our conversation has taken a grim turn that I am not entirely comfortable with, and it would not be far-fetched to imagine that this shift in mood has seeped in and tainted the wine.

He stands, regarding me seriously. "Every part." Against the backdrop of the growing blaze, shrouded by tendrils of acrid smoke, he seems almost to me a demon incarnate, a dark-eyed angel of vengeance. If I could be tempted toward religion in any way, there could be no better fuel for belief than this. I tell myself that I am not yet a believer. "Today, though, a leg will do it."

I am not distraught, but my vision blurs with tears that I swiftly shake away. I can feel both of my legs, they are solid and unequivocally present. Who is to say, though, that I will not feel the same when he has anaesthetised me, amputated the leg of his choice? I have treated a patient before with phantom limb syndrome, a girl who was unable to get past chronic aches and itches in her hand despite ten years of separation from the appendage. I must be her diametric opposite, as I know the dread of my situation still resides within me, however apart from the occasional twinge I feel strangely disconnected from my fear.

My mind plucks out a memory from my time at medical school. The heft and incongruous size of a cadaverous limb, disconnected from the gestalt of the human body. "The fire, I assume, will be big enough?"

"Are you fishing for a compliment, Bedelia?" He asks.

"I would hate for all this effort to be wasted," I say. The cooking pit itself spans a neat four-foot square of what was once my flawless green lawn, bordering the rock garden at the rear of my house. His positioning of the pit itself is aesthetic and precise, but I hardly think that my gardener will appreciate the mounds of soil that dot the periphery of the scene. I say so to Hannibal, unable to stem the flow of words.

"I'm sure your gardener will have far bigger things to worry about than some dirt on the lawn." He starts to pick up his tools and tidy around the pit, humming industriously. Despite his words, I know that the piles of excess soil will not remain for long. There is no certainty in him that he will remain undiscovered here. Insufferable in his perfectionism, he will refuse to leave the mess for later.

"This is remarkably ostentatious, even for you. Remarkably labour intensive." I lift my glass, but it is mysteriously empty. A small but noticeable plume of smoke is rising from the fire. I wonder, briefly, if it will be enough to draw the attention of my neighbours. "I had never guessed you to be a fan of Polynesian cuisine. Surely you could have chosen a less risky preparation." 

"The theme came naturally, Bedelia." He tucks the box of matches into his pocket. "As soon as I saw you, I became inspired."

***

_The taxi pulled up at the curb beside my hotel. The driver, shabby and shaggy-haired in a baseball cap, disengaged the lock on the trunk with a faint metallic clunk as the valet moved to help me with my bags. I had packed intentionally light for my trip, so I didn't wait for him to load my luggage. I was eager to be as far as possible from DC, from my sterile hotel room with scratchy sheets and inadequate minibar. Not to mention the constant scrutiny of faceless FBI junior agents 'just checking in'. Two and a half weeks since I had seen home, since Hannibal escaped from federal custody. It would be several months more, at least, before I would see home again. I was impatient for the journey to be over, for the freedom to breathe again. I hefted my small suitcase into the dim and musty-smelling trunk before settling into the back seat of the car._

_I had chosen a red-eye flight, so it was already late in the evening. I gazed out at the quiet street, into the darkening sky where stars had already begun winking through the clouds. The car shuddered as the valet slammed the trunk, and it made me jump involuntarily. I had been on edge ever since I had received the call from Agent Crawford the previous morning. Within the flurry of activity that followed, I barely had a moment to calm myself._

_The taxi driver started the car, glancing back at me in the rear-view mirror. "Airport," I said. "Dulles International."_

_"Please?" He retorted, merging into the flow of traffic._

_Distracted, I was momentarily unable to make sense of what the driver had said. "I'm sorry?"_

_"I forgive you," He said, and his accented tone cut through the haze in my head. Unshaven and slumping, I had discounted him at first. So stupid. I had come so close._

_He flicked a switch and I could hear the tiny click, a subtle but universal symbol for danger, as all the doors locked. Hannibal smiled back at me in the rear-view mirror, steering the car toward the direction of Baltimore, and home. "Explain to me though, Bedelia. Hawaii?"_

***

As he bends to pick up the shovel from the grass, there is the smallest wince, a ripple in his veneer of strength. Perhaps my head is clearing, as I start to become aware of a slight halting stiffness in his movements. He feels pain but does not wish to show the extent of it. I start to see the pale shadows of fading bruises on his face, and the paler shadow of grief in his eyes, despite his camouflage of good humour.

I cannot say that I fully comprehend the depths of Hannibal's emotional range, but I believe that I have seen him in a state very close to what I would call happiness. I have seen him too in the bad times, never truly crushed or broken, but bruised. I have seen the tears roll down his face after the arrest of Will Graham, but I do not know how much was true, and how much was show. The look on his face now, revealed to me like the starred sky emerging from clouds, is unlike anything I have seen.

"Hannibal," I say, before I am able to stop myself. "What happened to you?"

He walks to me, forcing his expression into blankness as he plucks the empty glass from my fingers. The curl of his lip is without humour, and any amusement that had lingered in his manner is gone. I know that he comprehends the meaning behind my words. The question that hangs between us, crying out for an answer.

_Is Will Graham still alive?_

"The fire should take care of itself, for now." Hannibal reaches for my hand. "Come along. I will take care of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, Bedelia you old lush you. 
> 
> I'm starting to think there's such a thing as over-researching, but hopefully I haven't stretched reality too far with my details. The show has painted me into a corner to a certain extent. :)
> 
> More tags will be added when I get further into the story. Not sure how many chapters I want for this one yet, but I guess I'll just wait and see how it plays out.
> 
> I will hopefully get some updates done in the next couple of days, so stay tuned. 
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> Edit: Ugh. I was really tired when I posted this yesterday, so I've made a couple of changes.
> 
> So many mistakes! I'm sorry. *cries*


	2. Anaesthesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cracks are starting to appear in Hannibal's armour.
> 
> And Bedelia just lost maybe 12-15lbs in a day, so well done to her.

_"Is he dead?"_

_There was a momentary silence on the phone as Jack Crawford gathered his thoughts, prepared a careful response. He hadn't expected to get to the point so quickly. "I can't say for sure. However, we believe..."_

_I cut him off. "I am untrained in forensics, Agent Crawford. I do know enough to be aware that assertions are meaningless without evidence. I hope you have something more concrete than belief to provide."_

_Another weighted pause. I cradled the phone to my ear, the other hand clutching nervously at the bedspread. This claustrophobic hotel room was stifling me, the walls encroaching as the seconds ticked by. Finally, his voice came through. "As a courtesy, I would be prepared to provide some details. To put your mind at ease." Jack Crawford had a habit of appearing polite while clearly having no concern for me on a personal basis. He was a good man at heart, but I knew that I would always appear untrustworthy in his eyes. I would always be the bride of Frankenstein._

_"Believe me, my mind won't be at ease until I see his body on a slab." Even though my words seemed harsh to me, I knew this was a sentiment shared by Agent Crawford. I was relieved that my voice was not as tremulous as it seemed within my own head. "If you could give me the broad strokes, I would appreciate the gesture."_

_"There was video evidence at the scene," Jack said. "Dolarhyde set up a camera to film Hannibal's death. The footage shows that Hannibal had already been shot at least once, in the lower abdomen."_

_I felt a little thrill, a rush down my spine. I swallowed, suddenly parched. "But he was still alive, in the footage?"_

_"Dolarhyde was an exceptional marksman. The shot was intended to disable, not to kill."_

_I got up from the bed and took the requisite four steps to the minibar to pour a drink. I had heard a number of things about the late Francis Dolarhyde from Will Graham during our few sessions. I was given the impression that he was not a creature of mercy. "The Great Red Dragon was a connoisseur of suffering," I said._

_Twisting the top off a small bottle of vodka, the raw stamped metal of the lid nicked the pad of my thumb. I sucked at the bleeding cut, thoughtful. "No wonder Hannibal felt such a kinship."_

***

I wake rapidly, as if I am being dragged from the domain of sleep by some external force. However, I do not feel the dreamless absence of self that comes with deep anaesthesia. I can remember falling asleep, and I know that I have dreamed. I can still hear Agent Crawford's voice in memory as I force my heavy eyelids open. My mouth is parched, and the copper tang of blood lingers on my tongue.

"Welcome back, Bedelia." My eyes cross with the effort of focusing on the figure standing over me. From the quality of the light that streams through my bedroom window, I surmise that I have not been unconscious for long. Hannibal is dressed in the same grey button-down shirt, sleeves bunched up around his elbows, top two buttons undone. The shirt is stained with smudges of dirt from his morning in the garden. Not bloodstained, as far as I can see, but this isn't much of a comfort. I am in no pain, but I can feel nothing below my waist.

I shift in the bed slightly, attempting to sit upright. I am afraid to look, but also desperate to see the state that he has left me in. He places a hand gently on my shoulder, sinking down onto the bed beside me. He reaches for a glass of water. "Careful. I've given you a spinal anaesthetic for the surgery, and a mild sedative. It will take some time for you to regain feeling."

He cradles my head with one hand as he offers the water. I sip it carefully and slowly, despite the relief it offers to my cracked lips and dry throat. His bedside manner would be touching, if it weren't for the emptiness in his eyes. "Better?" He puts the glass down on the bedside table and eases my head back to the pillows.

"When I do regain feeling..." My voice sounds thin to me, wavering.

Hannibal interrupts me, so certain he is of my train of thought. "I believe the large majority of patients do retain sensation in their missing limbs," he says. "I tried to question Abel Gideon about it once, but he was reluctant to discuss the subject."

I understand this sentiment. Abel Gideon, former pretender to the throne of the Chesapeake Ripper, had lost all four of his limbs at the hands of Hannibal Lecter. He had also partaken knowingly, if not eagerly, of said limbs at Hannibal's table. I wonder vaguely if this is the exact fate that awaits me, and whether I will truly mind when it comes to the point. After all, what's the alternative? Even to this day, the thought of oysters and acorns turns my stomach, and I have been unable to drink marsala for the past three years. 

Hannibal is still talking, and I am unsure if he is doing it to calm me, or to calm himself. As his fingers absent-mindedly smooth my hair, my first instinct is to flinch. "I recall reading a study which indicated that the use of spinal rather than general anaesthesia may assist in reducing phantom limb pain in the week following surgery. Naturally I was curious to find out for myself. I would be eager to hear your impressions." He is hollow-eyed, and I wonder how long it is since he has slept. "The recovery is also quicker, for which I am sure you will be grateful."

Although Hannibal has long ago discarded his person suit, his eyes look out at me now from another mask, one that is beginning to craze at the edges. Between the cracks, I can see the rawness of his flesh. I'm not even sure he's aware of wearing it. "Have _you_ recovered yet?" I am still not fully in control of my actions, it seems, as I reach out toward him. My fingers brush his side, where I imagine his bullet wound to be. There is nothing sexual in my touch, nothing violent, but he looks momentarily startled. He grasps my wrist and twists away from me slightly, so my fingertips hover just outside of reach.

"I am curious," I continue. "Did you operate on yourself? Or did he do it for you?"

He has been shot, but there is another wound that is far larger, one that is still bleeding freely. I am not the only one that has suffered an amputation recently. As I speak there is the smallest twitch behind his eyes that makes me sure I have hit the right note. "Is there a form of anaesthesia that could help to chase that pain away?"

He regards me dully. "I was shot in the back. The bullet passed through only muscle and the exit wound was clean. Through and through."

I am well aware of the complications that can come from abdominal trauma. Jack Crawford was right about the Dragon's sharpshooting skills, or Hannibal has just been incredibly lucky. "I've spoken to Agent Crawford about that night. I know what happened." I am sure that he can feel my pulse race as he holds my wrist. "I'm not talking about the bullet wound anymore, Hannibal."

He places my hand down on the bed, pressing it briefly into the bedspread as a warning to keep my hands to myself. "Oh. How is Jack?"

***

_"You haven't asked me about Will Graham," said Jack._

_"You're right." I replied, ice cubes clinking merrily against the water glass as I sipped my vodka. "I don't particularly care for Will Graham, if you'll excuse me for being frank. As I recall, this situation is entirely his fault."_

_"He did the best he could in a bad situation. We formulated this plan together, and I am equally responsible for what happened." Agent Crawford's voice was exasperated on the other end of the phone line. I wondered how long it would be before he simply hung up on me. "He had his moments, but he was a good agent."_

_"Was?"_

_Jack sighed. "From audio analysis of the camera footage at the scene, it appears Will was stabbed in the face or the neck. Blood and trace show that he was going for his sidearm at the time. We think he was stabbed at least once more in the upper body."_

_I couldn't begin to imagine how this level of detail could be obtained from the spray of blood, but there was a limit to how much interest I could show toward the deserved fate of Will Graham. "He bled heroically, then."_

_"He took down the Dragon. His pistol was found in the house, so he was forced to use the only weapons at his disposal. Dolarhyde's knife, his hands."_

_"And Hannibal," I said, lest he forget the most dangerous weapon at the scene. Jack's description of the bloodbath had painted my mind with vivid colours. Francis Dolarhyde had been eviscerated, his throat torn out by savage teeth. I hardly wished to credit Will Graham, this ineffectual and fluffy ball of plaid, with such an achievement. "You seem so certain that Will Graham was acting on the side of good."_

_"I have doubted Will before, but it was to my detriment." Jack was firm about this, I could tell. "Without a weapon, Will had no other choice but to drag Hannibal from the cliff with him. This was the plan, and he carried it out."_

_I finished my vodka, set the glass down on the nightstand beside the bed. Outside my window, I could hear the steady bustling hum of another weekday in Washington DC. It was probably too early for another drink. "Not flawlessly," I said. "Unless the plan was for him to die. Or for Hannibal not to die. Otherwise, very well executed."_

***

"I don't want to talk about Jack Crawford," I say to Hannibal. I find myself suddenly wishing for another sip of water. "I want to talk about phantom limbs. Half of your being has been torn away. I want to know if you still retain sensation, if the pain still lingers."

Hannibal looks away from me. "You are no longer my therapist, Bedelia."

"And you are no longer my patient." I smile, but it is more from nostalgia than humour. We have trod these paths before. "I'm not asking as your psychiatrist, or even as your wife." If I was ever truly his wife to begin with. "I'm asking... as your dinner."

He doesn't look at me, but his lip quirks as I say this.

"I see you so affected, so changed, and I want to know why. Indulge me," I say. As he slowly turns to face me again, I take this as consent to continue. "Agent Crawford tells me that Will Graham's trail stopped at the edge of a cliff, teetering over the North Atlantic. I don't know whether I believe him. Is Will dead?"

Hannibal still hides behind his broken mask of neutrality. However, his eyes, deep-set with fatigue, are brimming with moisture. I wait patiently, even though I am unsure whether he will provide a response.

Finally, he speaks. "Yes. I don't know. Does it matter?" I think I am imagining it at first, but his voice seems choked within his throat. "To answer your previous question... Yes. The best part of me has been severed most brutally. I still feel it. The pain is acute."

As vindicated as I know I should feel, any victory here is temporary, and meaningless. There is also a long-buried part of me that regrets having asked, despite the knowledge of the horrible things he has done to me, and will do in the near future. A decaying remnant of conscience, perhaps.

A single tear courses down Hannibal's face. "Will Graham is gone. And I know I will never see him again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotsa dialogue in this one. Lotsa exposition. Ugh. Sorry. Everybody is running around in my head and being all melodramatic. Like teenagers, the lot of 'em.
> 
> For the Hannigram-inclined, please be assured that all of the characters I have listed WILL be appearing in this story. I'm not going to say any more than that, just... Yeah. I'll make it work. Won't be long.
> 
> Also, I have learned a great deal today more about anaesthetic procedures than I ever thought I would. Did it help? I dunno. I hope so.
> 
> Always happy for feedback, hate mail etc. 
> 
> If you want, look me up on Tumblr at frankenberger.tumblr.com  
> If you don't, that's cool too. You know, whatevs.
> 
> xoxo


	3. Flailing

_In Florence, I would soak for hours in my copper clawfoot tub. Drowsy and heavy in the warm water, relaxing in the absence of thought. A patient Ophelia, hovering just above the waterline. Waiting for the madness to finally come and sweep me downstream._

_On occasion, I would sink beneath the water. But I could never manage to drown._

_Hannibal would come and sit beside me, when the idea pleased him. He would enter the room quietly, soft footfalls whispering on the marble floor to herald him, a slight scrape of the chair as he settled by the tub. He would wash my hair, fingers massaging my scalp as he worked the rich lather. He would converse if I wished to converse, or he would stay silent if I chose to close my eyes and doze. I cannot help but remember fondly these moments of gentle intimacy between us. Cocooned in warmth, with nothing but the regular drip of the tap, and the feeling of Hannibal's fingers in my hair._

***

He runs the cloth up my arm, water cooling rapidly on my skin as his hand passes over me. For all the indignity of my situation, I am grateful for the refreshing chill as it strips away the sweat. His presence has recalled me to the faded opulence of the apartment we shared in Florence, but I am still unsatisfied. I am wistful for my copper bathtub, the warm bergamot and sandalwood aroma of my shampoo. This post-mutilation bedside sponge-bath is hardly a substitute.

I have not spoken to him in several hours now, since he told me Will Graham was gone. At first I was curious to know what had happened, but I clearly have bigger concerns. Hannibal comes and goes, prompted by the necessities of dinner preparation. With every departure, the click of a locked door. I have slept in patches, sheltered from pain by the narcotic haze provided by my new IV drip. As the sun sets, though, the silence is weighing on me. 

I have focused, when I am capable of focusing, on what I could possibly say to Hannibal to make him release me. I think in my bleakest moments that perhaps the right combination of words will gain me the consolation prize of a quicker death. In my stronger moments, there are the first small stirrings of a voice that berates me for inactivity and urges me to fight.

If an opportunity for escape exists, I am sure there will be only one. 

He sets aside the cloth and stands, moving away. "I hope you like the dress I chose for you." He passes through the bathroom to the closet and returns, laying a garment bag on the end of the bed. Inside, I can see a dark blue cloud of lace, sparkling with gold flourishes. He bought this dress for me in Florence, I remember. Painstakingly tailored, fitted precisely to my measurements, and never worn until this point. I only hope I can do it justice. 

"It will do, I suppose." There is a sick feeling in my stomach that steadily grows as I gaze at the dress, as the shadows lengthen. I am not inclined to be agreeable. We are past the point of good manners. "I don't know why you're bothering to dress me at all. I'll be terrible company, and I can guarantee I won't be eating anything."

He doesn't respond, but purses his lips in a way that makes me think he has a great deal he would like to say. I wonder how he tolerated the rampant rudeness of Will Graham for so long.

"Perhaps terrible company is preferable to no company at all." I muse.

Leaning toward me, he pulls the IV needle from my arm, the gesture a little rougher than necessary. I wince. He has spared me pain until this point, but I suppose I will be expected to suffer through dinner. "Always a pleasure," he murmurs, his expression bland and insincere.

"I should hold my tongue," I say, speaking for him. "Lest I be added to the ranks of the damned in your personal perversion of Dante's Hell."

He gathers me under the arms, pulling me upright. I am already stripped to my underwear, and have been since I awoke from the sedative. I do not find the skin on skin contact enticing. I could attack him now, bare hands and teeth, but I am nowhere near strong enough. I may be able to claw his skin deep enough to scar, that would be worth the effort alone. However, the change in position is jarring, and I am distracted. Pain is all that remains where my leg once was. Tingling, pulling, and stabbing all down my thigh. If there weren't still some form of drug in my system, I would be a sobbing, screaming wreck by now.

"Rudeness is not a cardinal sin in itself," he replies confidentially, uncaring of my discomfort. "Although, it is a trait possessed by many who reside there. I believe it is a sin better punished on Earth than in the afterworld."

He lifts me, pulling the covers aside, turning me so that my knee dangles from the edge of the bed. Part of me hopes he has torn the stitches in his bullet wound with all this heavy lifting, but I know that he could not bleed to death fast enough to save me. I do not cry out from the pain, but this is to delude myself that I am still unbroken. When I speak it is with effort. "A shame. I would be among illustrious company."

He retrieves the gown from the garment bag, and dresses me with impersonal meticulousness. "There is already prime real estate set aside for you in the inferno, Bedelia. Alighieri reserved the very innermost circle of Hell for the betrayers."

The dress still fits. It clings perfectly to every curve of my body. The parts of my body that remain, at least. He crouches before me and settles the lacy fabric over my hips with care, but no enthusiasm. His face remains neutral. Hannibal has expected to derive enjoyment from this, but instead feels hollow.

"All I have betrayed is my own humanity." I grit my teeth as he reaches inside the plunging neckline of the dress, lifting and aligning my breasts. His hands are cool, doctor's hands. An unwelcome intrusion. I couldn't care less if I show up at the dinner table lopsided, but he obviously does. "If I see Will Graham there, I will be sure to send him your regards."

He blinks at me, removes his hands from my bare skin and instead focuses on arranging my hair. His voice is distracted. "Betrayal and manipulation fit you like a second skin. You use your knowledge to prick me, you use your former claims on me in an attempt to force my disclosure."

"You use your former claims on me to assert ownership of my life," I reply. It is a struggle to sit so straight. Although it is not warm in the room, I can feel a drop of sweat as it trickles down my chest, tracing the bare line of flesh. "You are a presumptuous narcissist. My probing pales in comparison."

"You walked into this with open eyes, and willingly crossed the line from observation to participation. You knew I would come for you." He winds a curl of my hair around his finger, tucks it behind my ear. I think, for a moment, that he may be remembering our time together. Perhaps, somewhere in his memory palace, he is seated beside the bathtub and washing my hair. "Now is as good a time as any to call in my debts." His hand lingers, but I am too furious to appeal to whatever affection may remain. Instead, I consider turning my head to bite him. 

"I'm not the only one on your itinerary." I say. At least some of the list is clear within my head. "Jack Crawford. Frederick Chilton?"

Hannibal hums mildly, shakes his head. "Being Frederick is punishment enough."

"Alana Bloom, then." Another of Bluebeard's wives, my immediate predecessor. I have met her only briefly, and do not feel pity for the scars she earned at the hands of Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps it is petty, as she remains alive and relatively intact. "Am I missing anyone?"

"Alana's wife. Her child." Hannibal stands, removing himself from biting range. "I made her a promise."

This surprises me enough to distract my attention from the possibilities of violence. I know that children do not figure prominently in Hannibal's world. He briefly toyed with the idea of offspring when he saw the opportunity to shape the young mind of Abigail Hobbs. Aside from this, I had assumed that the children of others were entirely inconsequential to him.

"You seek to salt the earth. I would not have expected your wrath to extend so far." I pause, wondering if it would be in my interest to speak further. "Will had a wife too, and a child."

"Yes," he replies flatly, unflustered. "And I unleashed the Dragon on them."

It is curious, the way that Hannibal struggles with his emotions. He flails against every feeling, unable to fully comprehend his human weakness. Even surrounded by his social circle, he never knew the meaning of friendship until he stumbled upon Will Graham. And love, which once meant a childlike devotion to a sister long dead, became a dangerous beast. It turned on him, and tore his unguarded heart from his chest.

***

_"What your sister made you feel was beyond your conscious ability to control or predict," I said._

_"Or negotiate." He added. He did not look up at me, but continued to play Erik Satie on the piano. The waltz drifted lightly in the air between us, while our words sunk heavily toward the floor. The label of therapy had long since dropped away, but we both knew this was no idle discussion. Both of us had demons we would much rather expel. Coincidentally, our personal demons each bore the name of Will Graham._

_"I would suggest what Will Graham makes you feel is not dissimilar." I watched him carefully as I spoke. His expression was grim, despite his effort to distract himself in music. "A force of mind and circumstance."_

_"Love," he replied, with something approaching alacrity. Fingers dancing across the keyboard, the ghost of a smile illuminated his features. A personal moment of tenderness. He looked up at me, finally, eyes bright. "He pays you a visit or he doesn't."_

***

"I told Will Graham once that you were in love with him."

Hannibal is not surprised. "Oh?"

"He asked."

"Love is an inadequate concept to describe the way I feel about Will Graham. I expect you believe that I was jealous of his wife." I had never considered that he would think of Molly Graham as a person. Rather, he would detest the idea of what she and her son represented. From my few therapy sessions with Will, I had begun to believe that his new family occupied a similarly representative role in his own mind. They were symbols of what he knew he should want, a denial that Hannibal was once again swallowing him whole. I will not share this theory with Hannibal. I do not respond, so Hannibal continues. "I thought only of Will when I sought to kill his family. I wanted only to wound him."

I contemplate mentioning that there are shoes to go with my dress in a box at the back of my closet, but the joke sounds poor even within my head. Better to pursue the subject of Will Graham's ill-fated sham of a family. "Are they still on your list?"

Hannibal tilts his head to one side, as if he is considering the final flourish for an elegantly presented meal. In a way, this is exactly what he is doing. He moves toward the nightstand and fetches a simple gold necklace from a selection of jewellery. He fastens it around my throat. "After the Dragon, I raised the subject only once. In anger. What would be the point of killing them now?" He speaks gently, but there is a distinct bitterness in his words.

I hardly know what to say. From his avoidance of the issue, I had assumed Jack Crawford's theory to be correct, that Will had drowned in the depths of the North Atlantic. His words suggest an aftermath, some sort of reckoning.

When I speak, it is with enforced calm. "I am no longer your psychiatrist, Hannibal. You do not need to talk to me at all, but we both seem incapable of silence."

"If I wished to be alone, I would not have come to see you." He admits it, but grudgingly. "There is a limit to the solitude that can be borne."

It is not only latent rivalry that makes me want to know more. We both stare into the same abyss at this moment, a vast and lonely depth. I cannot barter for a thousand and one nights as his Scheherazade, as I have no stories that would captivate him. There is only a modicum of hope if I can help him find the voice to tell his own story, if I can offer to hear it. "You skirt around the issue repeatedly, but still you won't tell me what happened to Will. I am hardly likely to disclose your confidences at this point."

The corner of one eye twitches. "Prodding a fresh wound is not the best way to heal it."

"If you sew shut a wound without cleaning it first, it will never heal."

He blanches visibly, his mouth a grim line. "It is almost 9pm." The change of subject is graceless, his discomposure evident. "If you'll excuse me, Bedelia, I must finish preparing dinner." 

He picks up a syringe from the nightstand, and an ampoule of liquid. If I had seen it there earlier, I might have tried to snatch it. But there is no point in speculating. He loads the syringe, and takes me by the arm. 

"Wait," I say. I grasp his arm with my other hand, but Hannibal only glances briefly up at me, disinterested. Finding a vein, he injects me with practised ease and prises my grasping fingers from his forearm. I stare at the tiny dot of spreading blood in the crook of my elbow. He would not sedate me heavily so close to dinner, so I know that some psychotropic drug is coursing through my system. I feel a stirring of panic.

"Wait, Hannibal." He will lock me in this room until dinner is ready, and I will desperately try to drag myself to the bathroom in a fit of frenzied self-preservation, seeking some form of weapon. Depending on the drug I have been given, I will doubtless end up as an undignified, dishevelled mess on the carpet. Or, more likely, I will sit here and simply stare in paralysed indecision until he returns to fetch me. 

He pauses, looks at me over his shoulder. The drugs are taking effect. I can already feel a weight and heaviness in my body, a growing inertia. I cannot stay alone here with my desperate thoughts, possibly surrounded by hallucinations, waiting for death. Part of me dreads the thought of joining Hannibal in the kitchen, but it is true that even terrible company is better than no company at all. 

"Don't leave me alone," I say, and the pleading in my voice is not feigned. I have never pleaded with Hannibal before, but now I am sinking in the water. Madness breathes down my neck. I am finally drowning. "Would you let this trauma fester forever inside, when you can still unburden to an understanding ear?" 

"You have no sympathy for me," he remarks.

He is more or less correct, but I have had my weak moments. "That has never been an impediment before. You have always maintained that I have the therapeutic skills to assist you, even when I pushed you away. Please, Hannibal."

He pauses, deterred still by doubt, but something in what I have said has gotten through. Wordlessly, he slides one arm underneath me, cautious of the tender stump, resting his other hand on my back as he lifts me from the bed. Resenting myself for the weakness that has led me to this, but still unwilling to fall, I wind my arms around the back of his neck.

My long dress trails behind as he carries me, like a damaged bride in midnight blue, across the threshold and down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered how people can deal with those fancy dresses that open all the way down the front, because tits and gravity. Laughed myself silly with the thought of Bedelia having lopsided boobs and Hannibanana having to reach in and straighten them, as she doesn't give even so much as half a fuck anymore.
> 
> Should I add a warning for non-consensual boob-wrangling? Let me know.
> 
> It's getting close to dinnertime now. I'd better go set the table. Wait, how many place settings will I need again?


	4. Mise en place

He places his masterpiece on the kitchen counter, fragrant steam rising from the impressive green-wrapped bundle. "Smoke from the kiawe wood and banana stalks flavour the meat as it steams inside the ti leaves," he explains, retrieving a small pile of fresh leaves from his box of supplies and fanning them out for me, as if I were a student attending a cooking demonstration. He is a consummate performer in so many aspects of his life. I halfway expect him to start juggling knives. 

I take a small sip of my water and teeter slightly on the kitchen stool, having some difficulty finding my centre of gravity. Hannibal pulls a cellphone from the pocket of his suit pants and glances at the screen as if to check the time. I think it's my phone, but I'm hardly likely to argue with him about it. 

I have not said a word to him since he brought me downstairs. While our dynamic has changed since I was Hannibal's therapist, he knows my methods. Something is bothering him, and I am waiting for him to begin the dialogue.

He does not leave me waiting for long.

"I am curious as to what you expect to gain from this, Dr Du Maurier." Hannibal puts away the phone and begins unwrapping the meat, careful to avoid scalding his fingers.

"Gain?" I respond. "There is nothing left to be gained." My reactions are dulled, drugged, and I feel nothing more significant than a heaviness and a sense of calm. I still find myself recoiling slightly with an unconscious twitch as the aroma of the roast leg reaches me. Since learning of the processes by which he obtains the raw materials, I haven't had the slightest inclination to watch Hannibal cook. However, what frightens me most is that there is nothing remotely unpleasant about this smell, smoky and rich. It triggers something in my olfactory memory, the first time Hannibal cooked for me.

***

_"Tête de Veau en Sauce Verte," said Hannibal, as he removed the glass dome from the serving dish with a flourish._

_I had already decanted the wine, and I was in the process of pouring his glass. Given the intriguing smell of the veal, I knew that the Côtes du Rhône had been the right choice. "Smells like a bonfire."_

_"I smoked the veal on a pyre of dry hay," he explained as he arranged my serving with what I considered to be a fussy degree of precision. "Imparts a unique smouldering flavour to the meat, and to the room."_

_I filled my glass from the carafe and took my seat at the table as he served himself. "This is an unexpected treat." When I smiled, it was with a hint of apprehension. It was a novelty to have such an immaculate meal prepared for me in my own home, however I knew that Hannibal never did anything without a specific reason. I did not wish to hazard a guess toward his current machinations._

_"Thank you for indulging me," he offered in return, as he sat._

_"You seemed like you needed to talk." Given that he had almost been killed by an unstable individual he counted as his only friend, this was hardly a surprise._

_"And since you refuse invitations to my dinner table," he added, "this is the only way I could cook for you."_

_The strained smile dropped from my features. I raised my wine glass. "What's on your mind, Hannibal?"_

***

I wonder now, in reflection, which creature gave up their head to become the hay-smoked Tête de Veau under Hannibal's glass dome. Who gave up their bones, to become the bud vases and salt cellars on his plates. I know that it wasn't the poor beleaguered Abigail Hobbs, but this provides no real comfort. It could have been anyone, really. It may have even been a cow.

Hannibal looks up at me, possibly to see if I will choke or vomit or fall off the chair, before he continues his presentation of the dish. He has noted my sudden silence, the unconscious way I clasp my hand across my face. "Prejudices are so often allowed to taint experience," he remarks, as he ties one of the long green ti leaves around the leg, securing it with a strip of bamboo stalk. "Those whom I have entertained in the past would no longer recall the meals fondly, I imagine. It is a pity to pollute such positive associations."

My reply is muffled below my palm. "You could hardly blame them, Hannibal."

He pauses in the act of tying the second leaf, deep in thought. "I will become quite the social pariah. There are very few remaining that would willingly join me at the table."

I find myself returning to the thought of Will Graham, a strange topic on which to dwell given that he is generally Hannibal's obsession. I know that this is what he truly wishes to discuss, despite these hours of dancing around the periphery. "He joined you at the table," I start, knowing that there will be no need to clarify who 'he' is. "Willingly."

The corner of Hannibal's lip curls unconsciously with the bitterness of a soured reminiscence. "I had thought so. He provided the meat, once. He even helped me to cook it."

"But now you have allowed your prejudice to taint the experience." I am not here to lecture Hannibal on the ethics of feeding human meat to unknowing guests, or the irrationality in his expectation that they should forgive this violation simply because the meal was well-prepared. His hypocrisy does interest me, however.

He finishes tying the bundle, places it just so, ornaments the bamboo sprigs with fresh blackberries. "Perhaps I should blind myself to the truths that followed, to preserve my memories unsullied."

"You speak of truths, but all I see are a series of assumptions." This is true for both Hannibal and Jack Crawford. A number of wild guesses about what may have happened on that night on the cliffs, in the days that followed. My understanding has increased, but not to the extent that I actually have the faintest idea what actually happened. "You assume that Will Graham betrayed you, that your perception of the relationship was one-sided. How can you be sure? As far as I see it, you're not even sure that he's dead."

Hannibal releases a sigh, pressing both hands into the countertop as he visibly slumps. I may have pushed him too far, but I seem incapable of censoring myself. When he speaks, he keeps his eyes downcast. "Will asked you if I was in love with him?"

I clutch my water glass, wishing it contained something a little stronger to complement my warm, floating haze. "Are you wondering if this constituted a reciprocation, or an intent to manipulate?"

He shakes his head, turns his attention back to the meal. He scatters a pile of small volcanic rocks around the serving platter, perhaps a tribute to the coals that roasted the meat, or an allusion to the fires of the inferno. 

"Will Graham's empathic ability often caused him to reflect the emotional state of others without conscious knowledge that these emotions were borrowed," I offer. "I do believe strongly that what Will felt toward you, while conflicted, was essentially genuine."

"Would you call it love?" He asks, his voice choked. He is trimming the stem of a large rose, heavy with a deep purple blush, and stops to savour the perfume of the bloom.

"I would be the wrong person to ask." Will never answered the question I posed him in return. "There was a fire that burned brightly, but I could not attest to the colour of the flame."

He takes a sip from his glass. He is drinking white wine, perhaps the Bâtard-Montrachet I tasted earlier in the day. "A fire that burns too brightly does not last," he remarks. "It consumes, until there is no oxygen left to burn."

"When faced with such a transcendent conflagration, who among us can resist?" I find myself gazing at the pair of kitchen scissors he is using to trim greenery. Cushioned from the panic of my situation by the drugs in my system, I have not been concentrating on the idea of finding a way out. The realisation shames me. "If Will intended to manipulate you, Hannibal, I do not believe it was a harmful impulse. He may have wished to shape you, as you have shaped him. We all seek to create, in those we love, a mirror image of ourselves."

Hannibal places the scissors on the countertop, wedging roses in between stalks of bamboo on the serving platter. He turns to fetch a pomegranate from his box of supplies and I feel my hand twitch as I stare at the sharp implement, just out of my reach. "He did not wish for me to kill Alana Bloom," he states, still facing away from me. "He could not see the necessity. I had thought our understanding complete, but I was wrong."

I lift my hand as if to reach for the sharp scissors, but he has noticed my movement. I lift my glass instead. "How did the subject of Dr Bloom arise?" I ask.

"An act of carelessness on my part," he replies, pointedly taking the kitchen scissors away and placing them in his box. "While we sailed along the coast, I had made preliminary enquiries as to the location of certain mutual acquaintances. Chiyoh accidentally left some papers where he was able to find them."

The name drags at my memory. I have a recollection of a slim, elegant woman with the innocent face of a girl and a cold practicality in her eyes. Bundled in a sleek black coat, disdainful as she watched me with a tourniquet around my arm and a needle in my hand. She had been holding a hunting rifle with a delicate confidence. Despite his words, I do not feel she was the type to ever do anything accidentally. "I believe I met her once, in Florence. She claimed to be family, yet she was hunting you."

Hannibal is diverted by this idea. "Yes. Chiyoh was my Aunt Murasaki's attendant, and over the years became the closest thing I had to family. She was a formidable hunter."

The past tense does not escape me. "If you sought to hide the fact that Chiyoh was stalking Alana Bloom, you must have anticipated that Will would not react positively."

Hannibal tears the pomegranate in half and arranges the pieces among tropical fruit, thematically mocking my attempt to escape to warmer climes. There are starfruit, rambutan, and others I am unable to identify. They look delicious, though, if you are fond of fruit. I wonder which grocer supplied him with these luxuries, especially at this time of year. The effort he is putting into this lavish presentation must be a consequence of being starved of the role of host for these three years. "I had hoped..." he starts, his expression wistful. "I allowed my frustration to rule me."

I know it is not often that Hannibal allows emotionality to guide him, and I tell him so. I have seen Hannibal lose control before, and it is an unsettling experience. 

He nods his head once in agreement, stepping away from the serving platter to pull my phone from his pocket, peek at the screen, drink his wine. "I sometimes think that it was impatience that led me to anger, but I know that it is rather a sense of disappointment. His reaction only confirmed suspicions I had formed, based upon observation."

I am starting to form a picture of their time together, volatile elements rebounding against one other in close quarters for the first difficult weeks of recovery. Cabin fever. Stunted in communication, unable to express their varied feelings toward each other. It sounds hellish, a saccharine melodrama. "You noticed a change in his behaviour?"

"I had been too blind to see his growing paranoia, his turmoil, but Chiyoh was not burdened by affection." The addition of a third factor, the quietly malicious Chiyoh, interests me. She, who had once referred to us both in kinship as Hannibal's caged birds, who had expressed a clear wish to see him caged also. I do not know if this impulse had faded through the years, but I know that avid desires never truly vanish. 

I can see it clearly, in my mind's eye. The soft-spoken, inscrutable Chiyoh watched them both as they healed. With a keen eye to the weaknesses of each, she became the sounding board for their doubts and fears, the things they could not yet share with each other. Then her secrets both true and false poured like poison into the ear of King Hamlet, and Hannibal never thought to disbelieve her words. She is, or was, a clever girl. Were it not for my own fateful role in this final act, I would have relished her ingenuity in forcing a bloody rift between the two men.

"When Will found her research, he was angry?" Hannibal is moving toward the refrigerator, and he fetches ice cubes from the freezer to scatter among the volcanic rock on his platter. As he sees me in the ninth circle of hell along with the great betrayers of history, it is fitting for him to decorate his masterwork with the ice that will encase me for all eternity.

"Upset, at first. The anger came when I suggested that we travel north rather than south, toward Maine."

Will Graham had lived in Maine with his new family. While I know that Hannibal had revisited the idea of murdering said family, I could not have imagined that this suggestion would be brought up so audaciously in conversation. A harsh bark of surprised laughter escapes me, although I know it is not funny.

He blinks at me in a possibly disapproving manner. "In retrospect, he was not ready."

They fought, throwing not only threats and recriminations but punches and possibly kicks, from what little detail I am able to extract from Hannibal. I am left to imagine what such an impressive masculine confrontation had entailed, knowing only that it ended with the two men being forcibly pulled apart by the long-suffering Chiyoh, and Will storming out onto the deck of their boat to cool down. 

"Regrettably, we had both been drinking." I wonder if this is a sufficient segue to ask for a glass of wine, but keep this thought to myself. "When I awoke in the morning, we were docked at a small town along the Virginia coast. Will was gone."

I find the idea that he would consider this to be sufficient evidence of Will's death quite ridiculous. I hope there is more to it, or I will have to revisit my opinion on Hannibal's rationality.

"You went after him?" I ask.

"I wished to wait for him." Hannibal is putting the last finishing touches on the serving platter. It will not be long now before dinner, as I'm sure he does not want the roast to get cold. It doesn't matter to me, one way or the other. I'm not very hungry. "But Chiyoh insisted on searching herself. She judged it as too much of a risk for me to be seen."

"Of course she did." I wonder if Hannibal has thought to question Chiyoh's motives. Perhaps I am overly cynical, perhaps she truly was loyal. But Hannibal inspires an odd form of loyalty in those devoted to him, a mixed desire to both protect and destroy. I too have felt the hunger to be near him while simultaneously wishing to rend him limb from limb.

He wipes his hands on a kitchen towel, and looks up at me with a kind of sadness. "When she returned and told me she could find no trace, I knew then that Will was dead." 

He closes his eyes, perhaps revisiting the memory in the vast palace of his mind. "The smell of Will clung to her like a confession. Her hands, perfumed with gunshot residue. Notes of blood she could not wash away." He sighs, and fixes his gaze back on me. "It was a deserved punishment, for both of us. For our pride, our inability to change. I have forgiven Chiyoh for her actions, she thought only to save me from what she considered as a hopeless relationship."

I wonder what form his forgiveness took, and if she survived it. I open my mouth to speak again, but Hannibal shakes his head. "Was it?" He asks. "Hopeless?"

***

_I was filled with a sense of strangeness as I sat across from Will Graham in my home office. I had not seen a patient here in some years, even my sessions with Hannibal were long enough ago that the room had gained an air of the abandoned. Stranger still was the malice that radiated from him, the smug and vicious confidence. If nothing else, Hannibal's influence had brought him out of his shell._

_"If he does end up eating you, Bedelia, you'd have it coming." His tone was low and measured._

_We traded smiles, locked in a cage of politeness and mutual distaste. "I can't blame him for doing what evolution has equipped him to do."_

_"If we just do whatever evolution equipped us to do, murder and cannibalism are morally acceptable."_

_"They are acceptable," I began, and Will raised his eyebrows in mocking surprise. "To murderers and cannibals. And you."_

_"And you," he replied, with a sly smile upon his face._

_I knew that he was wrong. While murder no longer held an intrinsic shock value for me, thanks to the invisible scars of Hannibal's influence, I had no taste for cannibalism. Whether Will Graham was motivated by murder and cannibalism, or even love, I could see the possessing force of Hannibal in his every movement._

_As happy as I should have been to have escaped from Hannibal Lecter with my life, I found myself jealous of their perfect synchronicity._

***

Hannibal is carrying me again through the dark house, to the dining table. Bustling about, he lights candles, lays out the feast. I have not answered his question. Perhaps he never really wanted a response. He fears the truth.

"If a man never reaches his heart's desire, he will never truly know the agony of loss." I say, my voice sounding thin and pathetic. It is no comfort to him, I am sure, but I continue. "I would envy someone who has experienced such a love, even with the pain of the aftermath."

As he places a platter of fresh oysters before me, I am struck by the thought that he will be dining on his creation alone.

"A love never spoken, or entirely shared." He responds, his voice dull. "The cruellest torture is to give a man what he has always wanted, but to let him hold it for only a moment."

I am suddenly, absurdly, touched. "I'm sorry, Hannibal."

I am also not entirely lucid, and the smile he gives me in return is tinged with sadness. 

As he leaves the room to fetch a bottle of wine, I can feel the earth spinning without me. I focus on my breathing, the movement of oxygen in and out of my lungs. I spot the oyster fork upon my plate and move it to my lap. Finally, although possibly too late, a weapon. This little reclamation of control, however pointless, grounds me.

Hannibal fills his glass with something light-bodied, perhaps a pinot noir. 

"May I have a glass of wine?" I ask. The fork in the palm of my hand warms to the touch of my skin. He is close enough for dinner conversation, but I need him close enough to aim for an eye, or a throat.

In his pocket, the phone begins to buzz, destroying the moment.

It seems incongruous to me, the way that Hannibal has focused on my cellphone throughout the evening. As if he were a thirteen year old girl rather than an elegant and sophisticated serial killer in his late forties. "Isn't it rude to bring a phone to the table?"

"My apologies, Bedelia," he says. "I will put it away shortly."

The phone buzzes again. Hannibal walks away from me, to fill another wine glass at the head of the table.

I had not noticed the third place setting previously.

"Are we expecting company?" I ask.

"Of all the guests who have eaten at my table, Jack Crawford always offered the most effusive praise."

I am unsure if he is saying what I think he is saying. My mouth opens, no words emerge. I gasp, like a fish on the hook, dragged unceremoniously from the water.

He begins to recite, reading from the phone's screen in a monotone. "He's here. I shouldn't have come home. You were right, about everything. Please help me, Agent Crawford."

"He's going to kill you, Hannibal," I say, as my heart leaps in my chest.

"If I do not kill him first." Hannibal places the phone face down upon a small table. "It would not be of much comfort, but perhaps a sign that I must carry on alone."

A small moan escapes me, involuntary. The light in the room feels brighter to me. I wonder if I am about to lose consciousness.

"If he had chosen to kill me rather than run away, if Chiyoh had not been there, I would have welcomed a death at the hands of Will Graham." He pauses. "I could perhaps tolerate a death at the hands of Jack Crawford, if that is what is meant to be."

I feel ill, giddy at the thought of what is to come. Freedom, or the continuation of purgatory. There is a noise, coming from my office. A faint scuffling. I do not dare to look, afraid that it is only my imagination.

"I would really like a glass of wine," I say.

A shadow flits past the open door.

"Please, Hannibal. I could really use..."

Hannibal's shoulders are relaxed, calm. Accepting. He lifts the carving knife from the table.

"It is my wine, after all."

He stiffens suddenly, and looks up in surprise. Scenting the air as he turns, with infinite slowness, toward the door.

I clutch the fork in my lap tightly, the harsh fricative of a curse escaping my lips.

"Sorry I'm late." Will Graham pauses just beyond the threshold. Dress shirt torn at the collar, blood oozing from a cut above one eye. A livid, fresh scar along one cheek. "But I do have a very good excuse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! There he is!
> 
> Sorry for dumping so much story in such a small package, but there's only so long that I can carry on without Will's adorable face to comfort me.
> 
> I've constructed a fairly detailed back-story in my head, but not all of it could make it to the page yet, at least not from this POV perspective. As a result, this may not work AT ALL. Would be keen to hear any views, if this is actually the case.
> 
> Love you all!


	5. When we've gone from this life...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.

_"Whose friendship are you considering?" I asked, with genuine curiosity._

_"Oddly enough, a colleague and a patient." Hannibal shifted slightly in his seat. "Not unlike how I am a colleague and a patient of yours. We've discussed him before."_

_"Will Graham." The FBI profiler. Hannibal had spoken of him at length. His empathy, his awkwardness, the way he wore glasses as a barrier to shield himself from the eyes of others. They both hid behind a shield of sorts, but I could not consider an odder pair than Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter._

_"He's nothing like me," Hannibal stated. He gazed off into space with a serious expression. I could see that his thoughts had dwelled heavily on the subject. "We see the world in different ways, yet he can assume my point of view."_

_"By profiling the criminally insane?" I was unable to conceal the incredulity in my tone._

_Hannibal's smile in response was brief, but warm. "As good a demonstration as any. I find it reassuring."_

_Hannibal appeared to have a fixation on the younger man, although I was sure it would be short-lived. It would be a brief spark, a tempting glimpse of kinship, and it would last only until Hannibal realised that the other man would never be able to truly understand him. For the moment, I would find it in myself to be happy for Hannibal's current reprieve from loneliness._

_"It's nice when someone sees us, Hannibal. Or has the ability to see us. It requires trust." I tilted my head to the side, assessing him. "Trust is difficult for you." In all the time I had known Hannibal Lecter, he had never trusted me enough to give me a glimpse of the creature that lurked inside his person suit. I found it hard to believe that he would let this Will Graham get close enough to actually, really see him._

_If he did, who would suffer as a result?_

***

"I don't even know where to start." Will takes a careful step into the room, his hands held loosely at his sides. He blinks erratically as blood trickles down his brow, tickling at his eyelid. His face is split in a large grin, seemingly the product of a mixture of anger and nervousness. "This was exceptionally reckless."

They keep their eyes locked upon one another, as if each is afraid that the apparition will fade if they look away. If I were to stand up and leave the room in this instant, I doubt that either would notice. Lacking mobility as I do, I can't test this theory. Crawling out on my belly would lack the necessary panache. I remain still instead, becoming one with the furniture.

Hannibal rests both hands upon the dining table, his right palm loosely clasping the carving knife. Will, meanwhile, moves slowly back and around the table, circling away from Hannibal and toward me. Stepping with exaggerated caution, as if he is trying not to spook a skittish animal.

"Easy," says Will.

At the sound of his voice, Hannibal's hand twitches and his fingers curl reflexively around the handle of his knife. Will pulls a pistol from his belt like the punchline to a bad joke, training it on the other man. "Easy, Hannibal."

"Have we come full circle once again?" Hannibal's expression is one of wistful acceptance, but he doesn't move to drop the blade. "Where's Uncle Jack?"

Will smirks in an effort to look casual, but with the tension that hums through his body it just looks forced. "Taking a nap. I'm afraid he won't be joining us for dinner." As he slowly moves closer and closer to me, I can feel the smooth metal of the oyster fork against my palm, and I think I may even get a chance to use it. Hardly a sensible idea, but it would be momentarily satisfying. "It really is a shame, because the food smells fantastic."

Will inclines his head in my direction. As I'm sure he's aware that one of my limbs is the meal in question, I'm not sure whether he is complimenting me or the chef. "Good evening, Bedelia."

I don't dignify this with a response, sure that I've earned the right to be silent by now. I do hope that he'll come closer, as I'd be all too happy to let the silver fork do my talking for me. At velocity.

Hannibal seems unsure. He knows he is not in control of this situation, and the loss of agency leaves him disconcerted. "Are you going to shoot me, Will?"

"That really depends," Will replies. "Are you going to cut me?"

Despite the fact that both are armed, this fight would not end well for Hannibal. He could throw the heavy carving knife and hope to hit something that will bleed, but he's aware that he'll be riddled with bullets the moment the blade leaves his hand. "I'd prefer not to," he admits. "You do however have me at a disadvantage."

Will hesitates, weighing the possibilities. If he had wanted to shoot Hannibal he could have done so as soon as he entered the room. I have the feeling that the gun was intended as a conversational aid, in case Hannibal felt inclined to stab first and make small talk later.

"Alright, then." Will points the pistol up and away from Hannibal before he crouches slowly to place the weapon beside his feet. As he rises, displaying his empty palms in the universal gesture of surrender, he looks up at Hannibal with something like sadness. "Do you actually believe that I would-" His voice falters. "You must have a very low opinion of me, Hannibal."

"On the contrary. From a moral standpoint, my opinion of you is exceedingly high."

To consider Will Graham as a moral ideal seems laughable to me, not that I am really in the frame of mind to laugh at this point in the proceedings. Under Hannibal's influence, we all manage to be corrupted sooner or later. By the look on his face, Will seems to agree with me.

"Conventional morality is no longer relevant for either of us," he says. "You think that I would sacrifice everything for the sake of what is 'good' or 'right'? Perhaps once upon a time."

I can almost see the cogs turn inside Hannibal's mind as he computes the implications of Will's words. When he speaks again, it is with a cautious sort of hope. "In that case, you're very late for dinner."

As if he has forgetten about the knife still clutched in one white-knuckled fist, Hannibal lifts the glass of wine from the table with his free hand and holds it out toward Will. The other man hesitates, fidgeting and bloodstained in torn formal wear. Hannibal holds peace in one hand, and violence in the other. As Hannibal waits with inscrutable patience, I see Will struggle under the weight of his indecision. Finally, he chooses to trust.

Will moves toward the head of the table and reaches for the glass in Hannibal's hand. Their fingers brush, linger. "You'll have to forgive me," Will says, his voice low. "but this visit was unexpected." He takes a decisive step backward, lest Hannibal change his mind and stab him anyway.

"I find that difficult to believe, unless you've taken to wandering around in formal attire." Hannibal looks down at Will, taking in the details of his ruined ensemble. Even I have to admit that he is unusually well-dressed. I wonder if Hannibal is torn between being captivated by the novelty of Will in this finely tailored clothing, and scorn for his obvious mistreatment of the suit.

Will scoffs, sipping his wine. "For god's sake, Hannibal," he responds. He's not angry, but there is a sort of clipped impatience in his words. "I didn't know you were here. Didn't even know this was where we were heading until Jack pulled down the street."

He pauses, on Hannibal's cold reaction. "What? Don't look at me like that. He didn't know I was following him. Now, I'm fairly sure he does."

A cautious beat. "You've been stalking Jack Crawford? To what end?"

"His end, or at least that was the intention." Seating himself at the head of the table, he turns his head over his shoulder towards Hannibal. "I can hardly corner him at work, so tonight's gala would have been a rare opportunity."

Hannibal stands motionless, helpless and at a loss for words. "I don't believe you."

Will's empty glass thumps on the tabletop, a little too emphatic. "You can believe whatever you want, but the fact remains that Jack Crawford is trussed like a Christmas turkey in Bedelia's office. He's even wearing a bowtie." He picks up the bottle, and pours himself another glass as he turns his attention toward me. "Would you happen to have any tape?"

I eye him distastefully, feeling the tickle of tears drying on my cheeks. I could tell him to go fuck himself, and it might even make me feel better. Instead I spit one word, "kitchen," and hope that the alternative meaning is clearly discerned.

After a while, I'm sure Will Graham has learned to interpret every word I say as an invitation to indulge in solitary fornication. Even though I've never actually reduced myself to saying the words.

"I used his belt and mine, wrists and ankles. But when he comes to, he may get loud. Might ruin the ambiance." Will pauses mid-pour, feigning irritation at Hannibal's immobility. "Are you going to carve, or should I?"

Hannibal looks down at the knife in his hand for a moment, as if he's debating what, or whom, he should carve.

***

_"I kept cochlear gardens as a young man, to attract fireflies." Hannibal tucked the last snail into position beside sprays of greenery and tufts of enoki mushrooms, before pouring two glasses of whiskey. "Their larvae would devour many times their own body weight in snails. Fuel, to power a transformation into a delicate creature of such beauty."_

_Through the sheer curtains I could see the lights of the city glimmer as if from a great distance. Florence was a mirage dancing upon the horizon, and I could only watch from behind the bars of my gilded cage._

_I turned toward Hannibal as he placed his whimsical fairytale garden of a dish on the lamp table beside me. For such a meticulously dressed man, he seemed to be just as comfortable half-dressed as he was when clothed. I considered this as an unexpected bonus of our cohabitation here in Florence. My gaze travelled down from his bare shoulder to his graceful well-muscled arm as he held the long-pointed fork toward me, already skewered with two plump and dripping escargot. I ducked my head to capture one of the snails between my teeth, locking eyes with Hannibal as he raised the fork to his own lips._

_As he handed me a glass, I raised it in an amused toast. "To the misfortune of the snail."_

_"Snails follow their nature as surely as those that eat them," he replied, tucking back the hair that fell across my shoulders before allowing his hand to rest against my neck in a lingering caress._

_"Fireflies live very brief lives."_

_He considered this for a moment, savouring his whiskey. "Better to live true to yourself for an instant than never know it."_

_It seemed that every conversation of late was about the same thing. "Not like Will Graham does," I said. Like a sore on the roof of my mouth, it was hard to stop prodding at the subject._

_His fingers brushed against my skin, trailing down the line of my throat. "An insect lacks morality to agonize over. Will agonizes about inevitable change."_

_"Almost anything can be trained to resist its instinct," I said, with a note of bitterness. "A shepherd dog doesn't savage the sheep."_

_Hannibal wrapped his arm around my waist and leaned in close. His bare chest against my back, warm against the silk of my robe. He pressed his cheek against my temple, voice low and intimate. "But it wants to. Will has reached a state of moral dumbfounding. Empathy and reciprocity."_

_If I had one wish at this moment, it would have been for any topic of conversation other than Will Graham. I found myself wondering what measure of blame I bore for fostering Hannibal's obsession._

_"Reciprocity," I said, turning back toward the window and the distant beckoning lights of Florence. "If we keep track of incoming and outgoing intentions, Will Graham is en-route to kill you while you lie in wait to kill him. Now, that's reciprocity."_

***

Hannibal finishes plating the dish with unusually shaky hands, and drops it on the table in front of Will with a petulant thump. "Chiyoh shot you," he says, as if this is a particularly novel way of saying 'bon appetit'.

Will looks down at the haphazardly-arranged food with raised eyebrows, then back up at his host. "Chiyoh shot -at- me."

"I thought you were dead." Hannibal holds eye contact for a moment, then turns away as if the very concept is overwhelming. "You let me think you were dead."

"I wasn't exactly in the most trusting frame of mind. I step out to buy supplies, and I get-" Will slams the palm of his hand down on the table, rattling the glassware. Both Hannibal and I jump at the sudden outburst. "You don't get to be angry at me!"

Hannibal seldom raises his own voice, and in his propensity for calmness he is unaccustomed to yelling. He sinks down into his seat, boneless, as Will continues his tirade. "Did you send her to kill me? Just tell me now, and I'll walk away. Leave you to whatever the hell this situation is supposed to be."

A sullen silence. Hannibal begins to eat, without enthusiasm. His face is pallid and weary, and the sight makes me feel vaguely ill.

"If you ask nicely I'll even untie Jack so you can commit suicide by FBI, as planned. If he called for backup, they're not here yet. But you could wait if you prefer." He shrugs. "Hardly seems fair, but whatever makes you happy."

Chewing slowly, Hannibal sets down his knife and fork. "I sent Chiyoh to bring you back to me. Any other action she chose to take was just that - her own choice."

"The illusion of free will." Will spears a slice of meat on his fork, making determined eye contact with me as he places it between his lips and makes a small sound of approval. Nobody is forcing him to eat, but yet here he is. He either disproves his own theory by following his own true nature, or proves it by becoming exactly the monster Hannibal created him to be. Does the meat taste different, I wonder, with full knowledge and consent?

"I should feel lucky that her shot missed," he concludes, swallowing.

The rifle shot had gone wide, barely scraping the flesh of Will's arm as he moved without warning. She pursued as he fled, and he caught her in a choke. He folds back the sleeves of his shirt to show the bandages that span his forearms, telling the tale of how she had fought back. I can't help but admire her for this. Chiyoh definitely had claws. "I left her unconscious," says Will. "How did you leave her?"

Hannibal is transfixed by the bandages on Will's arms, perhaps fighting the urge to survey the extent of the damage. "With a measure of sadness," he says, "And a great deal of regret."

Will huffs an exaggerated sigh. "Very poetic, but hardly informative. I could have killed her, I definitely had the chance. But-" He pauses. "I know you care about Chiyoh. I'm not so far gone that I would kill your family out of pure spite."

Will has obviously lost his taste for reciprocity, somewhere along the way.

The older man purses his lips, clearly understanding the insinuation. While Will would not stoop to murdering Hannibal's self-proclaimed family, his own loved ones are not at all protected by his regard. Abigail Hobbs is the obvious proof of concept. Even Hannibal's own love for the girl hadn't protected her when Hannibal set out to hurt Will. "The only things I had left to give Chiyoh were forgiveness, and death." His eyes are downcast. "I am a generous man. I gave both without the asking."

The confession moves me. "I don't think the term 'dysfunctional' even comes close to describing this." Within the mild haze of the chemicals in my system, I hear the words come out of my mouth before I even realise I am speaking. "I don't usually offer couples therapy, but I may be willing to make an exception in this case."

Hannibal merely glances at me coldly, but Will looks like he is about to choke on a mouthful of food. "No offence, Bedelia, but I believe we may be past the point of therapy."

I have come to believe that there is a certain negative emotion that can foreshadow a doomed relationship. It's a demonstrated fact. A couple that looks at each other with contempt is a couple in the throes of death. I see anger in the space between Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, disappointment and sadness. But never contempt. My throat feels exceptionally dry, all of a sudden. I find myself looking at the near-empty wine bottle at the end of the table as I speak. "Hannibal threatened to kill your family, didn't he? Tell me, does your wife know you're alive?"

He isn't sure where I'm going with this. "Nobody knows I'm alive. Molly least of all." He turns his head toward Hannibal. "That life has passed me by. I made my choice."

Hannibal clears his throat, uncomfortable at the mention of Molly's name.

I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to tell Will about the way Hannibal has been moping around my house all day, mourning his supposed loss. "Hannibal may be too much of a stubborn, pigheaded idiot to admit it, but-"

"That's enough, Bedelia." Swiftly and smoothly, Hannibal interrupts me.

Will clucks his tongue. "We were having a conversation, Hannibal. Bedelia was about to tell me what a stubborn idiot you are."

"You deserve each other," I say, holding myself up straight as I look Will directly in the eye. What a sad life it must be, to be madly in love and completely devoid of the vocabulary to admit or understand it. "Emotionally stunted, damaged, and entirely ridiculous. In my professional opinion."

Will's smile is stiff and unpleasant. Fear has made him rude. "Dr Du Maurier, you must be terribly thirsty by now."

"Completely parched," I admit. Let him come near me, and I'll show him the calibre of my thirst. I readjust my grip on the oyster fork under the table.

Miraculously, he pushes his chair back, wrapping his hand around the neck of the wine bottle before him.

"Will..." Hannibal says.

"Bedelia deserves a drink, Hannibal. She is our hostess, after all." He gets to his feet. "Would you deny her something she clearly can't do without?"

Hannibal opens his mouth as if to speak again, but does not. Denying the desires of others, after all, is a source of joy to him. He watches Will's progress around the table as he approaches me, bottle ready to pour.

As Will leans close over me, breath hot against my neck, Hannibal finally speaks. "Will, she's armed."

My reaction time is dulled. I lunge toward him with the fork, aiming for his throat, but he jerks away from me. The sharp prongs bury themselves in the firm flesh of his bicep and he lets out a sharp exhalation of pain before kicking the legs of the chair out from under me.

I am suddenly on my back, all the air forced violently from my lungs, and Will clambers on top of me with eyes full of fury. He pulls the silver fork from his arm with a contorted grimace, and I struggle beneath him.

"Will!" The cry comes from a distance as Hannibal leaps to his feet. I toss myself from side to side, feeling a sharp resurgence of pain as the stitches in my thigh tear loose and blood begins to flow. Even in the haze of my agony, I become aware of the small black shape on the floor, shimmering on the horizon of my vision like the distant lights of Florence.

Will's gun is loaded and waiting for me.

It takes every ounce of strength I have to pull Will off me. I cannot kick with my remaining leg but I flail and scream, dig my fingernails into his skin, claw at his torn and bloody shirt. I tear at the bandages along his forearms to seek the raw and barely-healed wounds that Chiyoh left.

"Will!" Hannibal snaps again, as I manage to throw Will off-balance.

On my belly I begin to crawl, drag myself through the searing pain toward the tear-blurred outline of the pistol. My body no longer moves in the way it should. My progress is slow, but my furious scrabbling brings me ever closer.

I can almost touch the gun, when I feel the presence looming above me.

Will flips me onto my back and clutches at my shoulders as he tries to hold me down. He looks every bit like the serial killer the world once thought him to be. Hannibal must be so proud.

"You deserve each other," I sob, a broken echo. "You both deserve to die."

He slams my head against the floor and I see stars, feel my body go limp and weak. My arms fall to my sides.

Hannibal suddenly appears behind Will and wraps both arms around his waist before yanking him bodily into the air, away from me.

Will swears loudly as he struggles against the tight cage of the arms that restrain him.

I can feel the blood as it pools beneath me. The world is starting to fade into blur with the shock, but I try to summon the strength to lift my arm. The gun. I have to remember. The gun.

Hannibal hugs Will tighter to his chest, tucking his head over the other man's shoulder as he fights. Bloody and wild, desperate to tear me limb from limb.

My fingers twitch, my hand lifts, and I reach.

Will wrenches himself around in Hannibal's grip and shoves, two-handed, against the solid weight of his shoulders. "You've taken everything from me!"

The gun is mere inches from my fingertips, and I reach.

Hannibal exhales heavily, then presses his hand tenderly against the side of Will's face. Murmuring softly, words in some other language.

I try to shift my shoulders, to get closer. Everything is pain.

"I have nothing," says Will. "Nothing."

"You have me." Hannibal winds his fingers into the curls at the nape of Will's neck. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Will breaks down, his body shaking as he sobs. And Hannibal, eyes shining with tears, leans in to kiss him.

Their lips meet softly at first, tentatively. In love, but not yet lovers. Hannibal waits for Will to pull away or resist, but he moans against Hannibal's mouth and pulls him closer. Reciprocity.

The very tip of my finger index finger grazes against the pistol, nudging it out of my reach once more, and I can hear my own urgent whine of frustration.

Hannibal hears it too, and disengages from the other man, his chest heaving with emotion, with the weight of his breath. Staring deep into Will's eyes for a long moment, reluctant to let go.

"I love you." The words from Will's lips, spoken in hushed sincerity, resonate through the room.

Hannibal's mouth falls open, and Will scrapes against his lips with the pad of his thumb.

I shift my weight one more time, hoping that the movement will bring me close enough to the weapon. Careful, so careful knowing I am in Hannibal's line of sight.

"Come with me," Hannibal says, the words flooding from him in a passionate torrent. "We'll go from this place together. Wherever you want." His hand tightens in Will's hair. "Leave your wife to mourn her dead, leave Alana to celebrate our demise with her wife, her Verger baby and her empire."

My remaining leg tangles in the lace of my dress as I shuffle, try to gain one last inch of reach.

"Be with me, Will. Guide me, rule me. I'm yours."

"Mine," I hear Will say, as I turn my entire body. My fingers close upon the gun.

A flurry of movement, and Hannibal's foot lands on my hand. Bones splinter with a sickening crunch. I scream, my throat hoarse.

"Rule me," Hannibal implores, plucking the gun away from my trapped hand as I wail.

My vision is growing dark as my body shuts down the external senses, aside from the pain. My broken hand throbs. Both of my legs twitch and itch with unnerving phantom sensation and I long for it to stop.

Through my own cries and the ringing in my head I do not hear Will's reply, but I close my eyes. This has never been my story, after all. I am but a sidenote.

I do not know whose hands I feel as they trail around my neck, cradle the back of my head, but from their steady, familiar warmth I think it may be Hannibal.

It doesn't really matter, though. They are but two halves of a whole, reunited by providence and the power of will. The hand of one is the instrument of the other, and it was meant to be this way.

Part of me will always envy the brilliance of their flame, no matter how short lived it turns out to be. Consuming all oxygen.

Strong fingers brace against either side of my skull, and twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [exhaling heavily]
> 
> It's finished and it's terrible but it took forever and it's better than being unfinished and still terrible so I guess, yeah. Here. Have a thing.
> 
> Yes, I killed her, and no, I don't care.
> 
> Comments, flames and sad cannibal noises always appreciated.
> 
> [Tweet at me](https://twitter.com/Frankenberger), or [mock me on tumblr ](http://frankenberger.tumblr.com/) should you choose.
> 
> Love to all my fannibal family!


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